


Not Alone

by cybel



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 08:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17784020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybel/pseuds/cybel
Summary: Blake wants Avon to stay.





	Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> The original version of this story was printed in the multi-fandom slash fanzine _Playfellows 2_ (1992), published by Merry Men Press. The zine's Fanlore page can be found [here](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Playfellows). Please note that this Fanlore page contains NSFW images.

I was beginning to feel foolish, standing in the corridor outside the door to Avon's quarters. Blake, the hero of the rebellion, Blake, the legend, afraid to reach out and press the buzzer. Afraid to face Avon in his lair and say what I had to say, listen to what he would say in response. Yes, I was beginning to feel foolish, all right.

Avon would have been amused, had he known.

I reached up and ran a hand through my hair. A delaying tactic. As always, it got tangled up in all those damned curls. Not for the first time I promised myself to get them trimmed short. Curls hardly befitted my image, after all. But it was just so much of a bother to keep them under control. So much easier to let them have their own way.

I sighed, well aware that I was still procrastinating. If I stood there much longer, I would talk myself out of going in. I sighed and rang the buzzer, not giving myself more time to think about it.

"Who's there?" Avon's voice, cold and uninviting. A simple question, asked in a tone that clearly conveyed an altogether different meaning than the words themselves suggested: 'Go away. Leave me alone.' As clear as any no trespassing sign.

"It's me," I answered, my throat dry. "Blake." Silence. "Let me in, Avon," I said, taking care to keep my tone firm, level. I wouldn't beg. "We need to talk."

More silence, then, "I've gone to bed. We can talk in the morning." 

I felt anger rise, threatening to choke me. I swallowed it. "Now, Avon." I answered. "It's important."

I felt his will defying my own even through the closed door, felt him hesitate and finally, grudgingly, yield. "Come in, then, if you must." 

The door slid open, and I entered quickly, before he could change his mind. Avon was standing beside his bed, shrugging into a black dressing gown. Before he could wrap it snuggly around himself, I caught a glimpse of his naked form and felt the blood rise into my face.

"Sorry," I muttered, cursing my unease. It had never occurred to me that Avon might sleep in the nude. In public he always dressed, or overdressed, as if he expected a blizzard to hit at any moment. I guess I had always assumed he was particularly susceptible to the cold, or perhaps just physically modest. But his current state of dishabille didn't seem to bother him. Indeed, he seemed vaguely pleased at my discomfort. 

"Well?" he asked, gazing at me languidly. "What is it that's so important it couldn't wait until morning?" He draped himself casually across his bed, not bothering to offer me a chair, and bent one leg slightly, allowing his robe to separate just enough to reveal the inside of one pale, finely-muscled thigh.

I realized with amazement and not a little annoyance that he was enjoying himself, that he was deliberately trying to disconcert me, maybe even frighten me off, with his uncharacteristically provocative behavior.

My resolve firmed. Two could play at that game. 

I smiled down at him appraisingly, allowing my gaze to trail appreciatively over his exposed leg, and was rewarded as his expression instantly became guarded. He pulled himself into a sitting position on the bed, offhandedly straightening his robe as he did so.

I should have felt pleased with myself, I suppose, for so deftly turning the tables on him. Instead I felt unaccountably sad. I hadn't come to play dominance games.

Pulling the chair away from his computer terminal, I set it by the bed. Then I straddled it and put both elbows on its back, leaning forward so that we were eye to eye rather than me looking down at him. 

It seemed to help. His guarded look faded, and he raised a questioning brow. "You never answered my question," he said. 

"Hmm?" I frowned. “Oh, yes." I cleared my throat, wondering where to start. No sense in skirting the issue. "Vila says you've decided to opt out. To leave us." To leave _me_. 

Avon's eyes narrowed. His face was as closed as I've ever seen it. "Vila talks too much. He should mind his own business." No confirmation there. No denial either. He wouldn't make it easy for me. 

"No doubt," I answered neutrally. I knew Avon too well to give up the advantage to him at this stage. If I showed any weakness now, he would use it against me, throw it back in my face. No, this was not the time for weakness. I held his eyes, determined not to be the first to look away. "Well? Is it true?" 

Suddenly he threw his head back and laughed. The sound sent a chill down my back. 

"Ah, Blake," he said finally, shifting his gaze to a spot just beyond my left ear, "you're all so predictable. Of course I knew that Vila would go running to you as soon as I told him of my decision. Currying favor with his master. So like him. As well I knew that you would feel obligated to try to talk me out of going." 

He leaned back against the wall with his fingers entwined behind his neck, trying to look nonchalant and failing. He was as tense as a coiled spring, and it occurred to me that this mattered to him in some fashion, mattered to him as much as it mattered to me. I felt encouraged.

"It's true, then," I said. 

"Yes. It's true." 

I took a deep breath to steady my voice, to make sure the next question did not come out sounding like an anguished plea. "Why?" I asked. 

He shrugged, still not looking at me. "Why not?" 

Something inside me snapped then, and all the anger I had ever felt toward Avon boiled to the surface. " _Why not_?" I bellowed, getting up off the chair so precipitously it toppled over and crashed to the floor. "How dare you ask that? You know perfectly well why not!" 

I can imagine how I looked to him then, looming over him with my fists clenched and my face twisted with fury. I had his full attention at last. He rose to his knees, one hand stretched out to steady himself against the wall, the other raised slightly as if to ward off a blow. 

And his eyes. Gods, his eyes. They were huge with anticipation and, worse, acceptance. As if he expected me to strike him. As if it had always been inevitable that eventually violence would erupt between us. As if he had been waiting for it and was relieved that the waiting was finally over. 

I had never seen him look so vulnerable or so desirable. Seeing him like that, with his robe hanging loosely around him, I realized for the first time how much smaller than me he was. Without his formidable wardrobe as camouflage he appeared almost slight. Defenseless. An illusion, I knew, but still. 

My anger disappeared, washed away on a wave of tenderness and longing so intense it made me feel weak and dizzy. I sank down beside him on the bed and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. 

I had to think, but there was no time. If I left now I might never have another chance to make him change his mind. But if I stayed, I might do or say the wrong thing and drive him finally, irrevocably, away. 

"Blake?" 

Under different circumstances the uncertainty in his voice might have made me laugh it was so unlike the Avon I knew. Now it made me feel more like crying. 

"You're not an easy man to like, Avon," I said, my voice muffled behind my hands. _But all too easy to love_. 

"I'm quite aware of that fact," he answered dryly. 

I raised my head from my hands and turned toward him. "But you really don't care, do you?" 

"No," he said. "Why should I?" 

"Why indeed." 

I almost pitied him then for everything that must have happened to him in the past to make him cut himself off so completely from all human interaction. But I knew that pity would drive him away faster than anything else I could offer. Avon was, above all, a proud man. Too proud for his own good. If that pride was threatened, he would be gone in an instant. Knowing that gave me an edge since I was more than willing to compromise my own pride to keep him with me on _Liberator_. 

I tried a different tack. "Where will you go?" I asked. 

My question took him by surprise, and I saw his confusion before he had a chance to clamp down on it. "Does it matter?" he asked, getting up from the bed and moving around to stand in front of me, putting himself in the dominant position for the first time since I had come to him. He was off balance and trying to hide it. 

I pressed my advantage. "Yes," I said, looking down at his elegant bare feet. "It matters to me. I'd like to think you're somewhere safe. That you'll be all right." 

He gave a strangled laugh. "Since when is my safety, the safety of any of us, important to you? You'd gladly make us all martyrs to your cause, and you know it. Even yourself." I could barely hear his next words. "Especially yourself." 

Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and I knew why he had decided to leave. I grabbed his wrist and said urgently, "I don't intend to die for my cause, Avon. I intend to go on living for it." 

He quickly pulled free. It was his turn to clench his fists as he grated bitterly, "Oh, you'll die for it all right. Sooner or later you'll die for it whether you intend to or not. But I won't be there to see it happen. Do you hear me, Blake? I won't be there!" 

He stood poised over me like a panther ready to spring, his fury palpable, but I didn't rise to his challenge. Instead, I stayed seated and asked him softly, "And will not being there be enough? Will it make the pain go away? Will it make the love go away?" 

His whole body went rigid as he turned his back to me and hissed, "Get out. Get out of here." 

"No," I said. "You're the one who's into running away. Not me. I'm staying." I stood up then and began to take off my clothes. He must have realized what I was doing, but he gave no outward sign. 

When I had shed the last of my clothing, I approached him slowly, carefully, until I stood directly behind him, only millimeters separating us. I could feel the warmth of him, the strength of him, and I knew that he could feel me, too, even if he did not acknowledge the fact. 

I leaned toward him and inhaled his unique scent, mixed now with the scents of fear and of musk. He was as aroused as I was. 

I exhaled softly and saw him shiver as my breath caressed his neck, heard his own breath catch in his throat. I wanted to touch him then more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. More than I wanted to regain the past the Federation had stolen from me. More even than I wanted the rebellion to succeed. 

If he had offered himself to me in that moment in exchange for everything I believed in, everything I had fought for, I think I would have agreed to his terms. Instead, he leaned back against me, resting his head on my chest, and murmured bleakly, "You bastard. Must you always get what you want, no matter what the cost to others?" 

My arms stole around him seemingly of their own accord and pulled him tight against me. "What cost, Avon?" I asked. 

"My life," he whispered hopelessly. "My sanity. My soul." 

I muffled a laugh, or perhaps it was a sob, in his silky hair. "But that's not what I want. Surely you don't really believe that's what I want?" 

"What, then?" 

"You beside me," I said, putting all the conviction I could muster into my words. "You in my bed, if you'll have me. As much of yourself as you can give me, as you’re willing to give me." 

"Or as little?" 

I could feel his stillness as he waited for my answer, the tautness of his muscles. 

"Or as little," I agreed. 

He turned in my arms then and looked up at me, his eyes unreadable. "And if I tell you to go to Hell?" he asked, the coldness of his words belied by the warmth of his body next to mine, the hardness of his erection against my thigh. 

I shrugged and moved my hands down over his buttocks, pulling us even closer together. "Then I'll go to Hell," I answered huskily. "But not," I added, "alone." 

His mask of unconcern held for a moment longer then wavered and melted away. "No, not alone," he agreed, passion and foreboding warring for supremacy on his beautiful, tormented features. "It seems you've left me no choice but to follow you there." 

"Then you'll stay?" 

"Yes," he sighed. "Gods help us both, I'll stay." With that he reached up and drew me down to him, covering my mouth with his own, and any answer I might have made was forever lost to silence.


End file.
